Morning
by Kristine
Summary: A morning in Rachel’s life, after Joey leaves the gang. A thoughtful piece.


Morning  
  
Premise: A morning in Rachel's life, after Joey leaves the gang. A thoughtful piece.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.  
  
Author's Note: I don't know how interesting anyone will find this, as it certainly leaves a lot of things up in the air. It was just something that demanded to be written, so out it came in a matter of hours. I hope you enjoy, and please leave a review if you are so inclined. I don't really intend to continue this unless my schedule magically clears, so please consider it a stand alone piece. Thanks.  
  
Kristine  
  
*~*~*  
  
Morning crept through the parted curtains like a cat, the early pink-tipped sun curling onto the bed sheets and stretching itself out, content, lazy, and delighted by its own glow. She hovered there in her half-sleep, seeing peach through her closed eyes. Dreams faded in and out, weaving together memories with far-fetched hopes, and fears with the rounded images of long ago mid-sleep dreams.  
  
Each one of them surfaced, as if waiting their turn. Phoebe, with her guitar in hand, mouth twisted into her eternal ironic smile. Ross, his hands tickling Emma under her chin, glee on both of their faces. Monica and Chandler, reading the same newspaper over steaming mugs at the coffeehouse, their voices and fingers mingling. And Joey, his eyes a liquid chocolate, and somewhat guilty for having been caught again. Looking. At her.  
  
She could almost feel her heart sighing, and she let her cheek graze the pillow beneath her.  
  
And then, the quietness ebbed, giving away to the ticking of the clock on the nightstand, the sound of a car horn, the call of a bird. Reality slowly found its foothold.  
  
And she remembered.  
  
After all, it had only been yesterday.  
  
He was off to live as he had not lived. Free, alone, and independent.  
  
*~*~*  
  
The taxi ride to the airport had been quiet. They had had to take two. Six friends and four suitcases had made it a necessity. A duffel bag jammed itself into her knee on every right turn, and her wincing was the only sign of any real movement. It was as if words, for once, had failed them. The silence flowed on. There were glances, halting and sidelong, that served only to puncture the monotony of looking at one spot on the horizon for too long a time. Each was left alone with their thoughts, and slowly, as the taxi made its way across the Brooklyn Bridge, it all came back. The past ten years, in all its entirety. The joys, the heartbreaks, the Thanksgivings and Christmases, the Sunday brunches, the orange couch in the coffeehouse, the brass numbers on the door of apartment 19, the birthdays, holidays, and everydays. And then her cheeks were wet.  
  
He had said goodbye with bright, teary eyes, lengthened hugs, and sad smiles. He had told them that he loved them. He would call in the morning. He would keep in touch. And when he had finally turned to go, his right shoulder sagging under the weight of his bag, she had dropped her purse and ran, catching her arms around his shoulders from behind, hugging him tight.  
  
"I'll miss you." She whispered it.  
  
He turned around in her embrace and buried his head in her neck, taking in her scent. "Rach, go. Don't make this too hard." His voice was pleading, broken. And yet he held on. He could feel all the reasons for leaving escaping him in her presence. He could feel her tears wet on his face.  
  
"Joey. I love you."  
  
He smiled, and pulled back to see the truth in her eyes. "I know," he said, and thumbed away her tears, feeling the hotness of the skin beneath her eyes, and the crease at the corner of her mouth. And then he realized she was smiling. "I wouldn't have done anything different."  
  
She reached up, and kissed him on the mouth. "I wouldn't have, either."  
  
And then they let go.  
  
*~*~*  
  
She opens her eyes, finally greeting honeyed morning light with sleepy eyes.  
  
Faintly, above the ticking of the clock and car horns, the steady noise of morning cartoons reaches the room from the kitchen. The coffee grinder turns on. The smell of buttered toast fills the air, and she breathes in, letting its sweetness reach her nose. She can hear Emma's giggle, and sock- clad feet padding around. The padding gets louder, coming towards the bedroom, and she quickly snaps her eyes shut. The steps pause in the doorway, and Rachel can imagine their owner smiling down at her sleeping form. She has the sudden urge to sit up and yell, "I'm awake!"  
  
"Rach," a voice says softly, and she can hear the feet continue towards the bed and stop again, this time right next to her. The lamp goes on. "Rachel, it's time to get up."  
  
She can feel him silently studying her face, trying to discern if she is really sleeping or not. It is now or never. She wriggles her toes under the covers and slowly opens her eyes to find Ross standing beside her, looking just as she imagined, dressed in olive slacks and a salmon shirt, tie slung around his neck but not yet knotted, his dark hair mussed just so. He smiles sweetly and sits down on the bed, brushing hair out of her eyes and away from her forehead.  
  
"Emma's up and eating, do you want to join us?"  
  
"Sure," she says, "I'll be out in a minute." Ross gives her a simple kiss on the mouth, and she can taste a hint of peppermint on his lips. He rises, taking the tie from around his neck and knotting it, his movements fluid, practiced, precise. Rachel looks up at him almost quizzically, watching his calm eyes, slightly pouted-out bottom lip, his smooth wrists as they perform a daily ritual. She feels the need to touch his face, to wipe away a crumb or smooth an out-of-place hair, but she can't find anything. He's impeccable.  
  
He gives himself a glance in the mirror above the dresser, and satisfied, turns towards the door. "I'll pour you some coffee, okay?"  
  
"Okay, thanks." He goes, padding back into the kitchen. There's another giggle. She wriggles her toes underneath the covers again, letting sleep's ache fall away from her.  
  
This is her life. Pink morning light, buttered toast, Emma's giggles, the ritual of putting on a tie. Perhaps, she thinks, she had been looking for something that simply is not there. Perhaps this is enough.  
  
And today, it is.  
  
She gets up, sliding from the warmth of the bed with reluctance, reaching for her robe slung over a chair, her feet finding slippers.  
  
The phone rings.  
  
Joey. 


End file.
